


Keep Me Sane

by basicsloth



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Betty - Freeform, F/M, Riverdale, Romance, bughead - Freeform, jughead - Freeform, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:15:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basicsloth/pseuds/basicsloth
Summary: [NEW STORY ~ DAILY UPDATES] Both Betty and Jughead find themselves drowning in problems of their own regarding the Serpents and getting a writing scholarship, yet when their worlds collide in the most unexpected way, they find themselves helping one-other and struggling apart. (Written in more ‘novel-like’ form, so warning, it’s a little wordy and detailed)
Relationships: Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones, bughead
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this story, i hope you enjoy and i hope to post as often as possible! Let me know what you think and comment any theories, I’d love to hear them.
> 
> Also, i appreciate that this book is wordy and very descriptive, more like a novel, however if you want to skip the prologue, you are more than welcome to. :)

It dawned dark earlier than she thought, the black night edging over the sky, shoving away the daylight. Her heels clicked against the concrete pavement, stumbling over the cracks and crumbles in the sidewalk, the black shoes wobbling as if they were cursed to snap in half. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs, higher than was acceptable for a teenage girl, or any girl for that matter, lost and directed in the wrong direction home by the homeless jokers that lived helplessly under the bridge that divided the two sides of Riverdale; and as she walked her hair frantically became scuffled mess with strands dancing in the wind carelessly. It was damp and dirty along the abandoned roads of the Southside, the shopfronts boared with rotting planks of chipping oak and rusted nails, graffitied until the crumbling brick was masked in vibrant and vivid colours, the paint dried with little droplets, the tags overlapping as if to prove who owned that wall. She had no idea where she was or where she was headed, and as the peak of the night hit, she found herself lost in a maze of ruin and desolate decay, the scent of alcoholic beverages and illegal drugs could be distinguished around each and every corner. However, up ahead was the glow of a neon green and hint of crimson, the sounds of macho laughter disrupting the silence, and she could hear the glass bottles clinging against each-other, the building the only populated place around the majority of the Southside, and as she stumbled closer she noticed a pattern in the jackets they wore. Some wore faded denim jackets, ripped at the elbows and seams, however the vast many favoured a heavy leather in rugged black, many studded in unpolished matte metal and the odd few with oversized collars, yet there was a similarity between each one — the embroidered snake across the back, some curled and some in the shape of an ‘S’. Surrounding this detailed snake was the bold print that read their name, ‘Southside Serpents’; it was feared all over Riverdale, specifically the Northside who looked down on the opposing side, all having harsh words to say about this labelled ‘rough’ gang. To the eye, they looked harmful and dangerous, and though they were, they wouldn’t harm you at all if did nothing wrong against them. If you stared long enough, you’d notice a pocket knife in the back pocket of their ragged jeans, some a handheld gun hidden in their belts hidden by their iconic yet feared jackets.  
This was how Betty joined the Serpents, a lost drunk girl who clumsily found herself in the middle of a deemed dangerous club surrounded by men and motorcycle-riding teenagers who’d been brought into the gang without a choice or option for education, or those who had no option but to join since they weren’t able to afford schooling and were trapped with the Southside stereotype, rathering the idea of a cruel ruthless gang than a lone (and possibly targeted) wolf. But when Betty entered the building, the leader saw something in her, possible potential or strength he couldn’t explain. FP Jones was this leader’s name, a man kind enough if you respected him, and in the process of turning his life and gang around after the social services took away his son, Jughead.  
When Betty woke up the next morning, her head thudding and body still numb, she saw the room around her, shown in two blurred images, and her back felt sore as underneath her was a rough, firm sofa which had been shoved in what looked like an unorganised office room overlooking a bar below, a pool table in the center and a row of tables and stools along the far wall and a dartboard shoved in the corner. A few gaming machines were lighting up the wall down the stairs by the main entrance, slot machines and all else with glasses of beer left crowding the tabletops, only a smidge remaining in the bottom.

There was a girl the same age with her hair dyed a bright yet faded pink carrying a circular tray in her hand, loading it with empty glasses left from the night before, balancing it as she snakes through the tables. Though she didn’t wear that familiar jacket, she had a tattoo on the side of her right ribcage, subtle and cute however it showed exactly who her family was, a contrasting image. Betty managed to make her way down the staircase, the world still spinning a little around her and her arms still as shaky as the night before. The girl turned around after hearing the steel staircase underneath Betty’s heels, and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.  
“So you’re the girl that stumbled into here last night.” She chuckled, steadily resting the tray on a stool by her elbow, crossing them afterwards as she stepped closer, “You look like a wannabe Southsider — but you’re from the Northside, right?”   
Betty nodded, trying to find her voice after it failed to speak. She coughed once to clear her coarse throat and ran her hand through her blonde hair, the knots and tangles getting caught between her pale fingertips. “Yeah, I- I’m a Northsider.” She didn’t think she was able to say anything else, her throat dry and sounding hoarse.   
“Thought so.” She sighed, nodding her head to the bar and began to walk over, taking the tray with her: she’d been doing waitressing a while, or so it seemed. Betty followed the girl, using the wooden pillars and the tables for support, pulling her skirt down as she walked using her free hand. “How’d you end up here then, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
Betty sighed, grabbing her throbbing head. She shook it after thinking deeply, and eventually opened her eyes apologetically. “I can’t remember. I was out with Veronica, Cheryl and Josie, I think. I haven’t been out drinking in a while, and as soon as I do I end up missing... I’m sorry, I should leave-“   
“No, you should stay a little longer. I know some remedies that might help that hangover of yours.” she offered, “And anyways, I don’t think you’re parents would be very pleased if you returned in that state.”  
Betty knew she was right even if she hated to admit it, hanging her head as if she was being lectured by her parents for slightest mishap, and by letting head bow she could smell the stench of varied alcohols in her breath, each substance as strong as the other. The night before she’d drank half of the menu, letting loose for the first time in a while after her mother sent her away, and her rebelliousness was the cause of that; she returned just a few nights ago, and since then she’d gone back to her old ways — in clubs throughout the entirety of the night with the girls, living her life as if she was about to die the very next day. She was wild, known as the ‘Northside Princess’ to many in Riverdale, blatant irony really: she was much the opposite. Before she was sent away she’d been accused of extreme violence, and though Betty was a party girl who threw away her perfect image that her mother forced upon her, she could never hurt a fly — crazy, free and incredibly sweet were the best words to describe her.   
“Yeah, you’re right.” She agreed, covering her face with her palms and slumping down on the stool beside her, “My mother would send me away again, and there’s no way in hell I’m going back there!”   
The girl nodded as she listened, preparing something behind the bar, shaking and stirring while adding more mixtures to thicken up the substance. She passed over the finish product in a cleaned ash tray, maybe even new, the thick gloopy paste sinking into the corners of the inside. “Put this on your face, it should make you look more... alive.” She paused, then remembered something, leaning against the bar with her arms resting over the countertop, “FP will be here soon, he wanted to talk to you. And also, I’m Toni. Feel free to make yourself at home.” 


	2. Jughead Jones

The constant pitter patter of the violent rain was a distraction for Jughead as it hit the window pane of Pop’s Choc Lit’Shoppe, the neon glow of the signs reflecting in the laptop screen. He threw his crowned beanie down on the tabletop of the booth, sipping at the remaining drops of coffee before glaring at it irritated, the cup now dry of drink. The line behind his last typed word flickered tauntingly, begging for the story to continue however Jughead had ran into a wall, a mental block that left his mind completely and utterly blank. He thought and thought, scrambling through his brain for a sentence that fit, but not even a three-worded phrase appeared, or an opening started to get him going. It kept on flickering; on, off, on, off. Eventually he slammed the lid shut, shoving the laptop in the rucksack by his thigh and marching out of Pop’s, making sure to leave a ten dollar bill on the table for Pop to pay for the four or five refills; the bell rang above the door as he left abruptly, exasperated by his writer’s block. The walk back to his foster carer’s home was estimated around twenty minutes, that’s if he was to take the shortcut down Elm Street and through the central park, otherwise it’s double the time and borderlining the river that ran between the north and south sides of the town.  
Once he reached the road, the pathway wide enough for a bus, he strolled down it at a chill pace, headphones on, the music loud enough to be able to feel it in his heart and body with his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, the music player in his palm, skipping past the songs he didn’t want to listen to at that moment with his thumb that had been hovering over the skip button.  
But there was something that he heard over the blaring music; it was shouting, sounding harsh and furious. Then a loud shattering of glass against the front porch of someone’s home nearby, a thud immediately after as the object hit the floor outside. As he got closer, he could distinguish their voices a little more: two women, a mother and a daughter it sounded. From their tones it seemed as if they despised each other, nemesis’ or mortal enemies who glared at one another with eyes burning with rage and anger, the want to kill fuzzing their brains.  
“You sent me away! You hated me! And for what? Because I didn’t want my life to be controlled by you!” the younger girl spat furiously, her words now audible to Jughead who had now removed his headphones. “Polly let herself be controlled by you and now she’s suffering from severe depression and anxiety! And you only love Charles because he finally returned after he fucking ran away as a teenager when he found out that dad isn’t his dad!” Her voice was louder and thick with rage, each word clear for the whole neighbourhood to hear.   
“I was doing what as best for you!” She argued, however her point seemed pathetic, “You were out of control! I wanted you to get the best education and get into the best colleges! I wanted you to have a life, Elizabeth!”   
Jughead approached the house, seeing the smashed window from the sidewalk. They were both stood in the window, shouting at each other, smoke fuming out of both ears and deep scarlet in the face. He slowed his pace, his curiosity getting the better of him as he peered over the tall hedge.   
“It’s my life! Not yours! I’ll make mistakes, it’s part of growing up!” She snapped back, “But you controlled me! I felt claustrophobic.”  
Jughead continued to listen, creeping past even slower now.   
The mother had her hands firmly on her hips, gasping from dismay and shock. “I was being a parent!”  
“A shit one!” The girl interrupted, tears streaming from her eyes, her voice breaking, “The serpents are a better family than you are. So I’m sorry, mom, but fuck you.”  
Jughead heard a door slam and jolted forward, speeding a little, processing what he’d just witnessed. Sure the arguement was intriguing, but that wasn’t the thing that fully snatched his interest. His father was the leader of the Southside Serpents, and the person he had taken away from months after his seventh birthday. That man was cruel and abusive after one drink too many, leaving Jughead bruised with no recollection the next morning, genuinely sorry even though he’d to it again the next night. Many assumed he was clumsy, and he said he was, however hidden behind him was the truth which he dared not to say. From a young age, he would clutch onto his younger sister, holding her close in their cramped shared bedroom, holding his hands over her ears as best he could as she gripped onto him, petrified and shaking: she was _that_ afraid. The shadows and silhouettes of their parents in the next room as they argued and shouted at one another, throwing object and clothing at each other as they raged, their voices so loud it woke them both up, and not until the next morning were they able to return to sleep, Jughead holding his dear sister close to make her feel safe. In his head he’d replay the sounds of shattering plates and cups, the yelling, the sound of a slap from his father to his mother. The next morning she left, Jellybean’s bed empty the next morning as Jughead awoke: she’d left him, she’d abandoned him with his drunken father, without his sister and trapped in abuse.  
The girls knee-high boots clicked as she made her way down the few steps to the path. Jughead looked back to try and catch her face despite the dark, maybe even to catch a glimpse of her jacket. The type of jacket she wore showed her importance and ranking, an ‘S‘ showing she was close to the top, and a circular snake just meant she was apart of it, nothing too special, while those in denim were rare to see as they were crafted by Jughead’s mother Gladys as a gift, given out to those who showed extreme loyalty and unity to the Serpents, more like a badge of honour. Only a few have them managed to gain one though as she left many years ago. Most of the denim jackets were handed down to the children to wear, a subtler mark of their gang alliance. This girl wore a leather one, newly made as the leather wasn’t cracked or rough; it was embroidered with a ‘S’ shape.   
“What are you staring at?” She hissed, startling Jughead, making his jump a little and stumble backwards unsteadily.   
Jughead shook his head, “Nothing...”  
But instead of walking away, she approached him confidently, strutting a little however her face still appeared harmless and almost sweet. She smiled a cute yet cocky smile and stopped before him. “You listened in, didn’t you Jones.”  
She knew his name. Or his last name, really.   
“You- you know my name?” He stammered, and she laughed. It was delicate and soft, almost indescribable as it didn’t match her black and dark image.   
“Sure. FP’s son, right?”   
“Yeah...”  
She began walking the same was I needed to head, so I followed her, her head gesturing for him to follow. “Hurry up, beanie boy.” To this, Jughead jogged a little to join her side. She knew his father, and seemed important to his gang; this intrigued him more than anything else and wondered how a Northsider was able to join and become high-ranking. It was frowned upon, he knew that much. Her hair was a stunning blonde, let loose and flowing down her back, covering part of the word ‘Southside’ on her jacket, and she wore tight black jeans, ripped at the knees and by the top of her thigh on one side, her boots rising high on her calf. Underneath her jacket was a simple black t-shirt, ripped and torn revealed a section of her lacy bra, the v-neck loosely sewn together and showed much of her cleavage, however it was too dark to see it properly, not that Jughead felt the need to look.   
She sighed heavily, walking at a fast pace — faster than Jughead had been strolling at. “He’s trying his hardest, y’know.” Her eyes darted to look at Jughead who had just caught up after trailing behind a little again, “He hates himself for everything. I’ve tried to tell him to leave the gang, make you his priority if he loves you that much. But he won’t Jones. I’ve tried.”   
He furrowed his eyebrows, his forehead crumpled slightly; this confused him. Why would she try to help him? How did she know him _and_ his situation? He had to ask. “How? ...I don’t understand.”   
“I’m the next in line. I know all about you.” She paused, “I was recruited for undercover work with the Ghoulies at first, but I became higher-ranking when I helped him through his addictions and mental health. I recognised you from his lock-screen — do you have a sister, by any chance?”   
His mouth became dry, desperate for water or words to say. She knew more about him than he probably realised, but what he still was yet to understand was why she was trying to help him. If she was close to his father, would she be trying to convince Jughead to reach out to him or something rather than telling him to quit. Why is trying to help him when she had no idea who he was?  
“Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker, and this isn’t an undercover mission either.” She shrugged, stuffing her hands in her jean pockets, and thats when Jughead noticed the mould of a pocket knife in the back pocket. “I just... I hate to see parents and their children separated. My mom and I... we argue, we hate each-other, I don’t think she even sees me as a daughter anymore. I don’t want that for anyone else, even someone I‘d wish death upon.” She chuckled lightly, before continuing, “I want to help you, Jones. He’s stopped drinking, and he’s not as tied to the Serpents anymore. He misses you.”  
“He abused me. Do you think I want to go back?” He snapped, the horrendous memories flushing back. She looked taken back, her breath hitched in her throat and her eyes saddened. It hurt her; who would’ve thought a Serpent had this this much emotion — the stereotype said that had none.   
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” She looked at the floor then halted, looking up at him and waiting for him to stop to. “I just assumed you wanted him to sort his act out before you saw him again. I never thought about _if_ you wanted to ever see him again.”   
After hearing her gentle and sorrowful voice, Jughead realised she was right. Though his father was abusive and ruined his childhood, he was still his father after all. They would eventually reunite at some point, and he would prefer if he was a much better person this time. And this girl was trying her hardest for him, doing all she could to sort out his dad when she didn’t even need to. All this for someone she never met. He remained quiet, unsure on what to say to her.   
“I’m sorry. I’ll leave you be.” She whispered, smiling weakly at him before turning to head the other way, pulling a pair of keys out of her pocket that looked fit for a motorbike and what Jughead assumed was the Whyte Wyrm backdoor or something similar.   
He wanted to stop her, thank her or something. But he didn’t, he watched her leave and fiddle with the keys. He watched as she climbed onto her motorbike further down the road and secure a helmet over her head, flattening her golden hair, and he watched as she revved the bike and sped off towards the dividing bridge, leaving behind all but a puff of smoke.


	3. The Before and After

She had her books clutched to her chest, math, english, all three sciences and drama, held close to her chest as she navigated her way to her next classroom, her hair tied high in a neat ponytail and her outfit coloured in light pastels with sweaters designed in a cute and girlish way. Betty Cooper was the smartest girl in the year group, a freshman who obeyed the rules and stayed well out of the way of trouble, avoiding parties, alcohol and all things typically teenager. She smiled all the time, her green eyes glistening with what people assumed was happiness and glee. However, it was all a mask, hiding her controlled life by her puppeteer of a mother, telling her how to be and who she was. Many said she was the nerd without glasses, though that too was a stereotype in itself, and many said she was Matilda in disguise. Betty Cooper was the school’s genius and good-girl as well as someone everyone loved.   
She would arrive on time each morning, a healthy packed lunch in a brown paper bag and her books in hand, always with her. And each morning she would head to her locker and collect any projects, homework or studying extras, then check her timetable which was always pre-memorised and collect her usual schooling equipment, hating to use those provided my school as she disliked sharing things used by multiple people — she was the type to clean or change the straw if anyone dared to take a sip out of her drink, her favourite being strawberry milkshake from Pop’s. Betty Cooper was the sweet, kind and caring girl everyone knew they could rely on.   
But she wasn't happy this way. Not at all. It was entirely an act. Each day she would return home, throw the books on her bed and lie atop the flowery pink quilt, her eyes welling with tears the she tried so hard to hold back, often failing. She didn’t want to end up like her sister, depressed, anxious and suicidal, kept in a mental home — it was what she feared the most, more than anything. It filled her with utter dread.

And now Betty was happy, rebelling against the forced upon image of the perfect girl next door that her mother drilled into her. But ever since she gave up the tight ponytail and pastel colours, shoving the workbooks into the locker and leaving them there to gather dust, she’d gained friends: rich and sassy Veronica Lodge, redhead HBIC Cheryl Blossom and Pussycat lead singer Josie McCoy — all of who were the school’s most popular girls, dressed in the newest fashion and overwhelmed in the newest trends, tackling each one head on and flawlessly too. Every weekend they’d dress up, makeup and hair looked as if to have been done by highly-paid professionals and then spend all night up until sunrise next morning partying in bright neon lights in a pitch black room, music blaring from large surrounding speakers, all prepared with fake ID and a false drivers licence as a back-up. Her confidence was enhanced and she was the school’s defiant rebel, disobeying all rules and changing her image entirely, contrasting to be the exact opposite everyone once knew her to be. Betty Cooper wasn’t known as the goodie-two-shoes or the teacher’s pet anymore, but rather the bad girl or the Southside wannabe, therefore nicknamed a ironic name of ‘Northside Princess‘.   
However, one day in a lively bar in Greendale by the bus station, there was a scruffy-looking girl, offering free drinks and VIP entry into a private club, to which all four girls accepted only to discover something much horrible. In self defence, Betty had to free herself the only way she knew how, kicking and screaming in urgency to escape. A pocket knife was used to threaten the men, yelling at them to back off until her voice went scratchy and rough.   
The next day the police arrived, showing a knife scar on the left side of the man’s face, and there was plenty of evidence to put Betty behind bars even though she was innocent. However, her parents negotiated, and by the next night she was wearing a horrible uniform of a dated dress in a horror-house orphanage slash mental hospital, similar to the one Polly had been transported to. The place was stingy and dirty, the nuns their bitter to the core with sour faces as if they’d been sucking lemons for a century. The Sister’s of Quiet Mercy was shut a few years later after a failed court case exposing their torturous tactics, forcing Betty to return home before her eighteenth birthday.   
And when she did return, she found herself lost in a bar crowded with gang members, staring at her as if they were wolves stalking fresh meat, however FP was there to command them to stop, and like and alpha to his pack, they did.

Betty’s motorcycle pulled up beside the rest outside the bar, slowing the bike down and shutting off the engine. Lifting the visor, she saw Fangs and SweetPea by the door, laughing at some terrible joke that only the alcohol found amusing. Pulling off the helmet, she threw it at Fangs, forcing him to act fast to catch it in both hands, almost forcing him backwards to hit the wall forcefully. She laughed as she walked past, the tone of her clicking heals changing as she went through the door from concrete to recycled wooden planks. Men nodded her way, acknowledging her importance here rather than a hungry stare. The few women gestured too, raising their half-full glasses high to her.   
“Cooper!”   
She looked up to office to see FP, his hands held high to show his absence of alcohol. “I’m proud. Also, I met your son.”   
His face fell as she said this, drooping as if gravity had targeted his expression. He froze too, unsure of what to say or do.   
“He was walking down Elm Street earlier. Accidentally walked into him outside my house about an hour ago.” She added, crossing the room to meet FP by the staircase, “He’s smart. You need to prove to him you’ve changed your act.”   
FP sighed, shoving his head in his hands and groaning lowly. This meeting between Betty and Jughead was entirely accidental, yet it did make Jughead more aware of his father again, even if he didn’t want to see him yet. Without saying anything else, Betty walked away from FP towards the bar, sliding onto a stool and helping herself to a drink, leaning over the countertop with her legs wrapped around the chair’s wooden legs to stop her from toppling over. Sitting back down with both a pint and a shot of a strong beverage that could get her wasted if she took only two, she rested her chin on her palm, staring forward, lost in a maze in her mind. She thought deeply about the boy, his black curled hair poking out from beneath his beanie and the suspenders from his waist hitting the backs of his legs as he jogged to catch up to her. He’d had a rucksack hanging off one shoulder, the other strap ripped and the back pocket torn — she wasn’t even sure if the zip was functional as it had only been zipped half way. His eyes were dark, a spec of light reflecting in them from the dim streetlamps, and his clothes too were dark in shade, it made him camouflage in the black night as he walked home.   
“Daydreaming about anything in particular, Betty?”   
She turned to face the voice, who appeared to be Toni, approaching her and taking her place behind the bar while unloading the tray of empty glass. Her eyes darted to see the shot glass and a pint glass in front of Betty, both now gone with only a drip left in the bottom. She laughed lightly, taking them and placing them in the sink behind her, her rose-coloured hair flaring up as she turned. “Not really, T.” She responded, heavily lifting her head, “I met FP’s son earlier though.” To this, Toni spun round to face her, eyes wide. She leant over the bar’s counter, curious to know more.   
“Do tell, I’ve never met the boy.”   
Betty hesitated, then gave in. She knew Toni would pester her until she broke. “I thought he’d be younger actually: he’s only our age, I think.” Betty looked up to see Toni’s expression, begging to hear more. “He’s really good-looking, I’ll give him that, however he came across a little cold and bitter — brooding too.”  
“Sounds exactly your type, Cooper.” She told her, raising her eyebrows at her, smirking. “Does he go to Riverdale High?”   
Betty shrugged, sighing. He must go to Riverdale High — Southside High was shut down after a drug operation was found in the school’s basement in the past year, fuelled by the Ghoulies and blamed on the Serpents. “I assume he does. He can’t be going Greendale High, that’s a forty minute bus away.”  
“Maybe if you attended school more often you might recognise him.” Toni snapped, a joking tone in her voice as she prepared a drink for the Serpent that had just arrived at the bar, throwing down a ten dollar bill for Toni to put into the till, no change needed as he would come back later for more. “And, if you became close her to him, you might be able to convince him to meet FP again.”  
As much as Betty didn’t want to admit it, she knew Toni was right. Since becoming a Serpent, her attendance to school deteriorated largely, leaving her grades to drastically drop and her education to become threatened, however Betty didn’t care one bit about that anymore: she was smart enough already to pass her SATs from all the revision and learning she was forced to do during her freshman year and childhood, so now she was able to do as much or as little as she liked despite her mother’s disapproval. “Fine,” Betty huffed, glaring at Toni with pure annoyance, “I’ll attend school more often, but don’t expect them not to suspend me!”   
  


The rattle of pots and pans were heard even before Jughead had opened the door, the clashing and banging sounding as if they were trying to start a band. There was the screeching of the younger two children that lived in that house, one of which was his carer’s own child, the other another foster child from a different family entirely. That child was sweet despite his anger issues, and the tantrums were becoming sparser the longer he lived with them. Jughead had lived here for a while (about four and a half years) after being moved from two homes before as he grew difficult to live with and harder to provide for. He was a stubborn child when the social services took him, removing him from his home in the trailer at around six that evening, and since then he grew furious and troubled from the confusion of it all. Since becoming a teenager, he matured much more, settling down and ploughing through it, keeping his head held down and keeping his trauma locked in his mind, hiding it from everyone.   
“Jughead! Is that you?” A woman called, her voice high pitched and cheery: too joyous for him as he rolled his eyes to the side.   
“Yeah.” He grumbled in response, making his way to the kitchen, his back slumped and his arms in his hoodie pocket, a heavily frown on his face and eyes drooped.  
“Hey sweetie,” she rejoiced, “there’s a letter for you, it’s from Stonewall.” And indeed there was, the sleek white pristine paper left on the countertop of the island, his full name printed in identical font and the envelope entirely creaseless. This exact letter was the one he’d been waiting for for weeks, counting down the days until it’s estimated arrival, and now, two days earlier than expected, it was was delivered and now straight in front of him. From being a young boy, he’d dreamt of becoming a bestselling author, his books well renowned and in every bookshelf across the world, maybe even moulded into a famous five-star movie that would be referenced and watched frequently by many. He wanted his books to be studied in school or read by people across the globe, analysed and praised by thousands of critics, their reviews full of admiration and recommendation to others. That was what he aspired to become, and that was how he wanted to turn his life around, become someone worth living to be. This letter would either reject or accept him into one of the best writing courses across the state, Stonewall’s Academic Literature Course Specifying Creative Writing, Complex Studies and Detailed Analysis, and despite the long and unnecessarily wordy title, this course was his stepping stone to his definition of success, and this is where he’d be able to direct his writing career in the best direction, and where he hoped would kickstart him in publishing his first novel.  
But the letter didn’t say that.   
He opened it nervously with his heart and thudding in his chest, loud enough to be heard in his ears: the school’s crest of reds and darker shades of greys and blacks was the first to peek out in the too left hand corner, and then it began to apologise before informing him he’d been refused a space.  
It broke him. It felt like a knife had been stabbed through his chest, straight through the center, ripping his hopes and dreams into two. He felt the pain in his chest, the hurt slicing him into two. He began to try and calculate what he did or wrote wrong — he was convinced the plot was perfect and that his descriptions were intriguing, creating vivid and stunning imagery, however others must’ve read otherwise. And that was what devastated him the most. 


End file.
